


Cold Pressing AU: The Well of Gold - Seedtime

by Alex_Quine



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Mpreg, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/pseuds/Alex_Quine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir faces a most unexpected request that opens up a world that challenges his previous life as a soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Well of Gold - Seedtime Chapter 1

They had arrived on a grey morning at the turn of the year, when there was still frost in the ground even though a steady drizzle fell over Minas Tirith and all those who could stay inside were ensconced around lit stoves; the stable-boy creeping indoors to warm his hands at the side of the bread oven, the maidservant darning worn hose, tucking her feet under her skirts away from the drafts, rubbing her fingers together to keep the needle flying.

The little party of men with their muddy ponies had been stopped some time at the sixth-level gate whilst the guards, none too pleased to be called from their brazier, sent a messenger to the Steward’s House. Eventually a servant, heavily-cloaked, had come to escort them up to the mansion, where their mounts were taken to the stables and the men brought into the kitchens. 

The Lord Boromir had ordered them fed and warmed before he would hear from them and hot soup and thick bannocks, spiced ale and honey-cakes, consumed whilst their damp boots steamed in a row before the kitchen ranges, led Gil to admit that city food was tasty and not as finicky as he’d been led to believe. The House Steward accepted the compliment at face value and the Cook bided her time.

When at last they were ushered into his Lordship’s library, wreathed in rain-shadows despite the crackling fire in the grate and lit lamps on every surface, Lord Boromir was sat with young Arin over a chessboard beside the fire. The large dog stretched at their feet lifted its head and looked carefully at the little group, decided that they appeared harmless and sank down again.

As they came forward into the room, Arin rose to stand beside his father’s chair and when they bowed, he carefully gave the courtesy back. Boromir laid his hand over the child’s resting on the arm of his chair.

“My lord,” said Gil, who had been elected unofficial spokesman, “we thank you for the hospitality of the Steward’s house and come with greetings from Mistress Mariam…”

“…and a small barrel of the good herb liquor with her compliments,” put in another at his elbow.

“Now that is welcome news indeed, Master Chub,” returned Boromir smiling widely and beckoning them towards the fire. “But I’m certain sure that has not brought you so far in this weather, has it?”

He raised an eyebrow at Gil the cooper, who shook his head and glanced briefly at Arin, before facing Boromir, saying stoutly, “We’d consult with your lordship on a matter to do with the estate.”

Boromir simply nodded and squeezed Arin’s hand gently. “This is work for us, lad, and you have your own books to go to…take Rullo with you.” As the boy and the dog made their exit Boromir arose from his chair and, beckoning Master Chub to take an end, he drew a long bench forward to the heat so that all might sit.

They’d shed their travelling cloaks at the kitchen door and were glad enough for the warmth as Boromir placed more logs in the grate and took his ease again, waiting calmly for them to speak. He was intrigued but not overly concerned. Any great matter would have come to his ears before now and the five men before him did not seem alarmed, so much as slightly uneasy.

Boromir let the silence settle on the room as the fire spat and crackled. Finally, Master Chub dug a bony elbow into the cooper’s ribs and after glaring at his neighbour, Gil Stave cleared his throat and launched into his tale.

There would be more mouths to feed come Spring and they were minded to bring an abandoned field back into cultivation. It was one of the great old places, but left to go to rack and ruin for a generation now. Indeed the only proof that this was the ‘Well of Gold’ of legend, the field that would not fail, would not let its people go without bread, were the ancient boundary marker stones, half buried in tangled weed. They’d dug them out in the autumn, set upright the ones that had fallen over and Mistress Mariam had walked the bounds, pouring a little ale over each one in greeting. There had been beasts tethered there to graze and muck carted from the farmyard heaps, spread to rot down over winter. Come the warm winds they would break open the earth with a new plough and sow the seed corn, and it was of this that they’d speak with the Lord Steward.

The cooper’s voice trailed away and he glanced down with an embarrassed cough. As Boromir waited with interest, Master Chub’s elbow was busy again, but before the cooper could draw breath to go on, the older man had fixed a beady eye on Boromir and said crisply, “It’s for the Master to cast the first seed on the ploughed field – his own seed – and we’re here to ask that it be done as in the old times, to bring luck to the land.”

Boromir thought for a moment that his jaw had dropped open, but recovered his wits sufficiently to be able to say, with every appearance of calm, “An old custom that, Master Chub.”

“And a good one, my lord,” replied the man stoutly, “for all that Lord Denethor did not honour it.”

“Those were sad days,” put in the cooper hastily, seeing the muscle at Boromir’s jaw twitch. “There were other and heavier matters on the Steward’s mind and no blame to him if battlefields had all his care then.”

“But peace has its own needs, my lord,” continued Chub, immovable, “and if the land is to succour men, then men must give it tribute and it is in the Master’s name that the earth is disturbed.”

“Quite,” said Boromir dryly. 

He was endeavouring to remember what he had heard of a practice so rooted in the soil that the boy raised in the city, who had ridden out from its walls at the head of troops to spatter the earth with the blood of Gondor’s enemies, rather than with seed of any kind, had only the haziest recollection of moments from his youth, sniggering over crude country customs.   With a sudden flush to his cheek, Boromir recalled a day when he and Faramir had left their youthful tributes in a couple of palace flowerbeds, vying to see whose seed would make the most flowers grow and of course, they’d forgotten their wager before the week was out.

He was jerked from his reverie now by Arin’s name spoken and looked keenly at Master Chub, who paused and then said mildly, “We thought the young lord might ride the beam of the new plough.” The old man unexpectedly twinkled at him, saying, “It is not so bold a ride as a pony, my lord, but the day should be merry.”

“I am sure that folk will celebrate with a will, Master Chub and as to the other matter,” he added turning to the anxious cooper, “I will think on it and send word.”

They had spoken at length about estate matters, for the chance to hear at first-hand how recent repairs had withstood the hard weather was not to be missed and it was some hours later, when Boromir had seen the party ushered out with instructions given as to their housing and entertainment, before he had the chance to mull over the reason for their visit. 

As Boromir sat before the dying embers of the fire, a mug of ale to hand, he thought long about the lands his father had bequeathed him, about how he had ridden that first time through the shattered landscape and a voice on the wind whispered at his ear that he was welcome. He had striven to do the best for the estates and their people, listening to wise heads when he could, following his instincts when he must and he trusted to the land to train him in its service.

All his childhood had been spent in the shadow of buildings, tall, marble, austere. Oft-times it had been too dangerous for the Steward’s children to go adventuring in the countryside. Later, the landscapes around him had been more or less crumbling and he realised now that he had seen each vista only as the soldier sees it, for vantage or for ambush. Too many places had been stained with the blood of companions at arms, or of the innocent. The land had endured, but it had wept at the slaughter. Master Chub was right, he thought. If now men would ask the earth to give up her bounty again, men should acknowledge the service with something precious of their own. It was only the manner of that tribute that gave him pause.

And so Aragorn found him, almost lost in shadows, and seeing him troubled did not question him then, but drew Boromir from his solitary state on softly passing feet, through the silent house to his chamber. There he stripped him with a master’s hands and washed him in cold water, making Boromir shiver, so that Aragorn had to towel him with a will and then drove him to their bed, to thaw his mood with busy fingers and a mouth that licked and nipped, fierce kisses to his inner thighs, his nipples pinched and twisted hard. 

Boromir groaned and went to shift under Aragorn, to bring their swollen cocks flush against one another. He was his King’s now, his gaze filled with the beloved form moving above him, breathing in his musk, aching to rub against him, to feel Aragorn’s furred stomach stroke his flesh. The room, the world of trial outside the chamber, had fallen away and all Boromir felt was the press of heat against his skin, the thrum of blood driving them onward.

Later, as he wiped the sweat from their skin, before slipping under the coverlet and turning to let Aragorn fit his body around him, wrap an arm across his chest and hold him close, Boromir began to recount the day’s events. As he laid out Master Chub’s proposal, he was surprised to feel Aragorn’s body shaking slightly against his back and half turned to look into his face reproachfully.

“Oh love,” gasped Aragorn, by now giggling weakly, “I was only remembering when Denethor was asked to take part in the same ritual. His blushing counsellors dithered for weeks before passing on the request…which troubled your sire not a whit, but somehow,” Aragorn sighed, “somehow the time was never right for the Steward to leave the city.”

“He did not spurn the request?”

“Oh no,” replied Aragorn, “but the estates were so far away and duties enough crowded the view from his windows each morning.” He lifted a hand, smiling, and gently smoothed the hair back from Boromir’s brow. “This thing troubles you?”

Unconciously, beneath the coverlet Boromir’s hand crept to cover his scarred groin and he looked into Aragorn’s eyes, saying simply, “I want to honour the land that feeds my people, not to have my body be more talked of than the act.”

For a long moment Aragorn gazed at him, then he leant to brush his lips over Boromir’s own, saying quietly, “There are many walking in Gondor now who carry scars from battle, but yours were got in defence of our son and I have never told you how they honour you.”

Boromir was amazed to see his eyes were starred with tears and reached for him, clasping Aragorn’s face and kissing him fiercely, growling, “Don’t heed my foolishness, love, this Steward’s feeble pride will stand the test,” and then, grinning at Aragorn, “I know just what will cheer…” So saying, Boromir kissed him again, a sound smack, and slid from the bed.    

Boromir wrapped himself in a furred gown and slipped from the room, down through silent corridors to the darkened pantry, to lift a flagstone by a ring set in the top and draw up the treasure hidden below. He had returned to the chamber bearing a jug, two goblets, a knife and a small bundle wrapped in sacking, on feet mottled blue with the cold. Aragorn exclaimed aloud and seated him before the fire, kneeling to clasp Boromir’s chilled toes between his hands, kneading and rubbing the flesh to set the blood flowing, whilst Boromir prepared his elixir.

“This is a rare pleasure,” said Aragorn, gazing, entranced, into the silver goblet at the pale green liquor. As he watched, Boromir had shaved slivers of ice from a block into the cups and when they lay together, propped on pillows, Boromir had poured over it liquid the colour of sea foam. The first mouthful had been a glorious evocation of woodlands in snow. It was as though he held an iceberg that tasted like sweet almonds.

“It’s an old family recipe,” said Boromir, raising his own cup in salute and closing his eyes as he drank, savouring the cool liquor that became like molten fire in his throat. “The steward’s wife concocts it from raw genever, honey, the youngest beech leaves, and several other things she will not divulge.”

The liquor almost gone, Aragorn took a bite of sweet ice and kissed his man, prizing open Boromir’s lips to slide the cold, heady snow into his mouth. Boromir groaned and sucked at the long tongue, unwilling to set him free and for moments together, they kissed. When finally they drew apart for breath, Boromir dipped a finger into the dregs in his cup and anointed Aragorn’s chest with the cold syrup. As he hissed at the sting, Boromir’s hot mouth lapped at the puckering nubs to lave the chills away with little licks and bites. Aragorn’s arm closed around Boromir again, and he sighed.

Boromir rubbed his cheek gently across Aragorn’s breast, the soft hair soothing on his face, until he stilled, listening to the steady beat of his love’s heart and said, 

“I will go to the field, and Arin with me to play his part too.” Aragorn opened his eyes and met Boromir’s steady gaze, who continued, “’Casting the Seed’ is a time for the ploughmen and the Master only. Arin will be tucked up safe in his bed.”

Aragorn nodded once, smiled, and they drifted into sleep.

Boromir had sent the little party homeward with his answer in the affirmative and had spoken to Arin about the journey that they would take together. The boy had never seen the lands that would be his and this brief visit Boromir intended to be the first of many. The child was excited at the thought of riding the plough behind a team of a dozen oxen and he knew that his Adar had another grown-up ceremony to perform in Casting the Seed, when as Master he would give of himself to the land, but Aragorn and Boromir had talked together and decided that the child need know no more than that. Doubtless, he and his classmates would speculate and if Arin asked him Boromir would endeavour to explain all, but for now they were not minded to force the issue.

With the last of the frost and the first buds on the fruit trees in the Steward’s garden, word came from the estate of a day appointed, if the Lord Steward were willing. Boromir consulted with his King, who gave his assent to a leave of absence, and their modest preparations, for Boromir would travel with no more than the boy and a couple of men-at-arms, were put in train.

Aragorn, poring over old texts, had determined that a Master need not appear in his field unclothed, although some had made their offering in this way. He had told Boromir this without further comment, allowing the younger man to make his own decision, but Boromir had said nothing and later had simply thanked him for the word given. Once or twice he had jested to Aragorn that it was as well that Master Chub had not waited longer, for his aging body might not stay the course for many more seasons, but Aragorn had not risen to the bait. Easy reassurance was not what was wanted then. It was in naked hunger, passion shared, that Aragorn sought to reassure Boromir that his flesh was beloved, for itself in all its imperfections, but more for the man within. 

They had lain together the three nights before Boromir’s departure and Aragorn had played a subtle hand, both bending to Boromir’s will with a beautiful grace and commanding in his turn, demanding Boromir’s surrender and rewarding him with mastery surrounded by such tenderness that Boromir was brought to tears, lying in his lover’s arms.

Now with a pale dawn approaching, the men were talking quietly before Aragorn would leave. Aragorn lifted his hand to stroke Boromir’s hair, curling around his ear.

“I have an oil for you, almond with a little cinnamon leaf for warmth. It will be cold on that field.”

“The lad’s talked of nothing else but the plough for days.”

“It’s in a vial small enough to tuck into your belt.”

“He wanted to ride his pony, but it’s too far. Not this time. Do you think..?”

Aragorn’s hand stilled and he leant in to plant a soft kiss on Boromir’s shoulder.

“Your son will make all love him.”

At that Boromir met his gaze with anxious eyes.

“Arin is your son too. Have I kept him from you of late?”

“No, but in this, he is his Adar’s child… all will love him as I do, for he is...” 

“True silver.”

“You are true silver, and when you kneel on that ploughed earth to give of yourself for the land and for your people, all will see you as I do.”

Aragorn caught Boromir to him then and kissed him fiercely and Boromir matched his fervour, hard bodies entwined, straining against one another, until with a growl Aragorn clasped both arms around Boromir and rolled them over to lie on their backs, Boromir caught to his breast, breathing hard. Aragorn had his face buried in the softness of Boromir’s hair and murmured to him,

“I do not begrudge the field your seed, spilled for others, but I will feel the loss of its getting. Will you pleasure yourself for me now?”

Aragorn’s arms unfolded from around his chest and long, supple fingers trailed down Boromir’s thighs as his King leant forward to mouth at the base of his neck and then plant gentle kisses up and to just below Boromir’s ear, where he caught the lobe between his teeth. Boromir moaned and stirred, leant back into his embrace and with one hand cradled his sack, whilst the other captured the fat head of his cock and was circling around the rim. Every-so-often a thumb skidded across the slit, slippery wet, paused to burrow in, and the little gasps pressed him back into Aragorn’s arms, rocking him, matching the rhythm of their breathing with gentle movement.

With a slow hand Boromir stroked the length, his head tipped back, rested on Aragorn’s shoulder, who whispered his desires into his ear; to see Boromir panting in his arms, to feel the sweat trickling down Boromir’s back to sting, salt, on Aragorn’s cock, trapped between them, to hear the hitch and gasp in Boromir’s voice as he crested, to wrap his legs around his man and feel the shuddering running through him, and finally to slide into his lax body, still trembling, to begin his own slow ascent.

The words were as whips of fire and Boromir’s fingers became firmer, moved faster. At one moment, he paused to catch his breath, to let the ache subside, and lifted his hand to Aragorn’s mouth, who greedily sucked at the fingers, his tongue busy between, making all slippery and laying little bites at the pads as Boromir withdrew them and grasped his cock again. Aragorn almost imagined he could hear the hiss of spit against hot metal and the little gasps had become a low moaning litany of words in which his name was repeated hoarsely. There was tension now in the body in his arms, Boromir’s hand moved as a blur and his breath came ragged. Aragorn stretched long fingers past the hand gently rolling the twisted sack, to press at the swollen flesh beneath it. When his man cried out in sweet agony, Aragorn soothed and held Boromir close as his body trembled. Then, as he had promised, while Boromir lay dazed in his arms, Aragorn took up the slippery seed spattered across his stomach and smeared himself with it to ease the way.

 


	2. The Well of Gold - Seedtime Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir goes to honour his promise and finds himself drawn into an old, old, story.

 

They had left in the early-morning, trotting out through the city gate in weak sunshine, Arin riding behind one of the guards, sitting very straight in his new cloak, embroidered with the three stars of the Steward’s House in silver on the white collar and new leather gauntlets. Boromir glanced sideways at the boy, but he was secure enough and their passage proved easy, so that the sky was barely beginning to take a rosy tinge when the buildings of the estate’s principal manor came into view.

Nevertheless, it had been a long journey for the lad and Arin had been mostly asleep, dozing against his father’s chest, for some while. He barely stirred when Boromir handed him down into the arms of the closest groom in the stable yard, then dismounted and took up his precious burden again. The estate steward, worthy man, would have welcomed the Lord Boromir formally, but his good wife took one look at Master and son and ushered them up to the solar, where a fire, supper and a warmed bed awaited them.

In the early morning light, Boromir knelt before Arin in the solar and re-tied the tapes at the neck of his shirt, before fixing the clasps of the leather vest, lined with shearling lamb like the new boots. In order to plough the whole field in a day they must needs start early and Boromir was not minded to have the child take a chill. Finally he tucked the leather gauntlets into Arin’s belt. 

Arin had stood patiently through all, but when Boromir went to take a comb to his hair, he rebelled and insisted that he was not Eldarion and he could quite readily comb his own hair!   The Lord Steward dryly begged pardon of the young master for having presumed to dictate how his son and heir should appear before his estate workers on his first visit and Arin threw himself at his Adar’s chest to say sorry and for a cuddle before going down.

“I want to do it right, Adar,” he whispered into Boromir’s ear, who simply hugged him and whispered back, “You’ll do fine, lad. Just remember, some day you will serve them as much as they’ll serve you.”

Arin had eaten once or twice at King Elessar’s table in the palace, although the King frequently dispensed with ceremony and ate alongside his household, but Boromir knew that the proper, some might say old-fashioned, order of things held sway under Steward Hirrald and so he was not surprised that a high table had been set for him and the boy on the dais at the end of the hall. They had broken their fast with a hearty meal, and Boromir had made sure that in spite of his excitement Arin ate enough, but he was conscious too that Arin’s eyes often strayed to the handful of other children in the hall. 

There was a press of folk around the ox-team and the new plough stood at the top end of the field, when Boromir walked forward with Arin. Rafe Ploughman bowed his head to the boy, who hardly noticed for the pleasure of seeing the great team, but when Boromir touched his shoulder, Arin blushed and smiled shyly at the ploughman. Amidst a buzz of excitement, they lifted the child to sit astride the beam of the plough and Rafe showed him where to hold on. The crowd were waved back until only the men at the heads of the lead oxen, the ploughman and Boromir stood on the field. Rafe wrapped the reins around his wrists and grasped the handles of the plough, then looked to the Master, who said firmly, “Walk on,” and as Rafe called to his team, the plough surged forward, the iron shoe biting into the earth. Arin clung tightly to the slippery wood and laughed delightedly as a cheer went up. Behind them men with short spades finished turning the cut divots, or collected field stones in rush baskets on their backs, and so the team began its slow passage along the way marked by the stone cairns.

The oxen were shouldering their way down the field, bowed into the harness, steam issuing from nostrils as they worked this first ploughing in an age. Rafe called them by name, hurried up the slow ox, offered a word of praise to the new beast, taking its place in the yoke for the first time. A gaggle of children ran alongside the team, harried the ox-men and every-so-often one would dart forward to pat one of the huge beasts in passing, until Rafe roared at them to keep clear of the horns and they scattered. 

All the while Arin rode his slippery perch, trying hard not on any account to fall off if the ploughshare met a stone that jerked the beam, and after a while he began to look ahead, past the rumps of the beasts in front of him. Adar was walking alongside, talking with the estate steward and sometimes their eyes met and Boromir would nod quietly at him.

At the end of the furrow, Rafe lifted him down, whilst the men unhitched and lifted up the heavy plough and turned the team, leading them into the neighbouring pasture to make the swing. Boromir ruffled Arin’s curls, stood beside him and as he and the steward conversed, Arin found himself being stared at by a group of children gathered around the field marker. The men were bringing up the team again. It would take the full day to plough the land, but this was his last ride on the beam, returning the young master to the top of the field. 

As the oxen were lined up to cut the next furrow, the off beast with its feet in the first furrow and the near beast walking on new ground, Arin pulled at his Adar’s sleeve and when Boromir bent to him, the child spoke urgently in his ear. Boromir nodded to him and shyly Arin beckoned to the children by the cairn. Their whispered conversation immediately ceased and they stared him down, until Arin’s cheeks reddened and he glanced away. Boromir saw his boy take a breath and turn back to them. Arin beckoned again and this time a girl child took her younger brother by the hand and strode forward to stand before him.

“Would you like to ride on the plough with me?” Arin voice was quiet but firm. “You have to hang on tight, but it’s fun.”

The girl considered this unexpected offer from the young master. Then she looked down at her charge.

“I have to take care of him, maybe he’s too small.”

Arin bit his lip.

“We can put him between us. Will that be alright, Adar?” Arin asked anxiously.

“A good plan, lad,” replied Boromir, who was conscious of the steward’s startled gaze and the slow grin on the face of the ploughman and as Rafe hitched up the plough again and gathered his reins, Boromir set the children on the beam, with Arin in the front. The toddler, who seemed a biddable child, he planted behind Arin and showed him how to grasp Arin’s jerkin. Finally, he lifted the girl up behind her brother, whereupon she settled herself with a businesslike air and took a firm grasp on her sibling.

“Now, if you are on the Steward’s business, then the Steward must provision you,” said Boromir briskly, reaching into the pouch at his belt and producing three peppermints.

Arin grinned and opened his mouth readily for the treat. The toddler’s jaw gaped so eagerly he reminded Boromir of a nestling, but his wide eyes and squeal of delight when he tasted the sweetmeat, were all human child; his sister eyed Boromir suspiciously. Without comment, Boromir offered her the lozenge on his palm and after a moment’s pause, she picked it up and popped it into her mouth, where she held it motionless for a heartbeat before starting to roll it around her tongue, smiling her thanks at him with a quiet dignity that Boromir thought would not have been out of place in the citadel.

Boromir could see that Rafe was ready to start the team, so he turned to the steward, emptied his pouch of peppermints into the man’s hands and indicated the rest of the children, by now also open mouthed, by the cairn. Then he nodded to the ploughman and with a surge that brought a giggle from Arin and another squeal from the toddler, they were off. As they came back up the field towards the crowd, there was clapping and cheering and it was the toddler who waved, with both hands, prompting his sister to clutch him tighter and bringing a burst of laughter from the spectators.

Arin led the procession back to the manor. Boromir had watched him disappear into the distance, still hand-in-hand with the small boy and his redoubtable sister. Mistress Mariam had promised to see him safe to the noonday meal, but it was with something like the stone that lay on his chest throughout Arin’s first schoolday in Minas Tirith, pressing the breath from his body, that Boromir watched him go.  

As the plough team worked on, Boromir stood and surveyed the landscape. The Well of Gold must have been fair once, set on the gentle slope of a hillside running down to flat meadowland, with a river running close by. As he walked along the line of the marker stones, it occurred to Boromir to wonder why it had taken so long to bring it back under the plough. This field, once the most productive earth in all his lands, should have been one of the first to be cleared and replanted. He stopped by a cairn, larger than the plain markers. Counting along the field edge he could see that every fourth marker was one of these larger cairns, topped by a worked stone. These were ancient things, showing the faint outlines of patterns cut into them. On some markers there were rings, whilst on the cairns the same circles might have been surrounded once by halos of small indentations. 

At one cairn, fallen stones had been replaced so that the carved block lay flat, like the top of an altar and the ring, with its attendant ‘dents’ showed more clearly. Casually, Boromir began to run the tips of his fingers over the surface of the stone, moving from one depression to another. The surface was cold, but smoother than he had expected and as his fingers circled the ring, he imagined that the stone grew warmer beneath his touch. 

Boromir counted the dents; seven in total and even though he lifted his gaze to follow the progress of the plough team, going through the laborious process of turning at the bottom of the field, his fingers did not leave the stone and he knew where the dents were – he knew – they drew his flesh unseen. It was almost come into his mind to wonder how he knew, when a shout from the field and urgent gestures from the stone pickers, jerked his attention back to the sunlit slope before him.

When he reached the party, the ox-men had taken the team well away from the edge of the field into the adjoining meadow, and Rafe and the estate steward were standing by the plough, looking down at the freshly turned earth. The ploughshare had scattered the bones a little, but cradled in the red soil lay the remains of an infant. Whilst the men gathered around him in silence, Boromir knelt down and gently smoothed the earth from the tiny skull. As he went to take it up, Rafe leant forward and stayed his hand.

“It may not be disturbed, Master.”

There was a murmur of assent around him and Boromir looked enquiringly from the newly wary faces of the workers, to the estate steward, who was unhappily twisting the edge of his cloak in his fingers. Slowly Boromir stood, brushed the soil from his breeches, and beckoning the steward to him, turned to walk through the meadow along the riverbank. Once well out of earshot of the men, Boromir stopped and turned to the steward, saying baldly,

“Well, Hirrald, what is it that does not travel from the Master’s lands to the Master’s ear? Why has this field not seen service before?”

Hirrald shrugged and looked at the ground and then, when Boromir did not respond but stood, his arms folded, implacable, the man gazed out across the river as though trying to catch sight of something just beyond his reach. His voice, when he spoke, was sombre, almost bewildered.

“Men say the Well of Gold is haunted, my lord. It was already fallow when I was a lad, let go to seed because none would work it and any that tried came to grief, their harvest no more than stone and sorrow…and yet, my grandsire said that once it shone at harvest time. It ripened first and fullest. It never failed.”

He turned to Boromir, who could see the awe in the man’s eyes.

“It is the first of fields; those cairns so old that none have known what the markings meant for an age. Grandsire said they were placed there by one of the old peoples, perhaps not men at all, but the First Born who spilt their blood to make it fertile.”

His voice lowered to a rougher tone.

“There was a girl, in my grandsire’s time, so fair that men called her ‘elleth’ and fought to wed with her. She loved a ploughman but her family favoured another, a richer man. When she bore the ploughman’s child, her father took it from her arms one night and buried it living in the field. Her lover could hear the babe crying as he searched for it in the dark and then the crying ceased. The girl sat by the edge of the field for days hoping to hear it cry again, until her wits were gone and she lay down and died and her lover cursed the field…said no seed sown there would be good seed.”

The man was trembling and Boromir felt suddenly chilled.

“But surely,” he asked, “the poor scrap whose bones we have uncovered, that cannot be this child?”

The steward looked down and shook his head.

“Nay, my lord, but since that time, the stillborn and in time of war the unwanted, have been left there at the edges just within the markers. Folk think that so much innocent blood has seeped into the ground by now that no more harm can come to them – and they must be left undisturbed.”

Boromir could feel cold sweat crawling at the base of his spine.

“How many?” he asked quietly.

The steward shrugged, thought, and then glanced at him and replied, “Perhaps a score, maybe more. Even orcs would not camp on the ground,” he added gruffly.

“So why, knowing this, did you choose to break open the ground now?”

Hirrald rubbed at his nose with a grubby finger.

“It is a new age, my lord. So much evil in the world defeated and we thought it might be time. It was good land…the best,” and his voice trailed away regretfully.

Boromir clasped Hirrald’s shoulder as he went and walked back onto the field, passing the men clustered silently around the tiny grave. As he climbed the hill Boromir was struck by the hope that the estate workers had put in his King’s new world as a place where old sorrows could at last be put aside. Close to the top of the field he stopped and turned to gaze across the land, the wind whipping his hair across his face. The Well of Gold fell away beneath his feet, down towards the meadowland and the river. Beyond the meadows a copse of low trees had begun to show the briefest of buds, so that a mist of green flowed about its swaying fringes.

As he stood there, Boromir felt his heart ache for the lovers whose forbidden coupling had begun the sorrow and salt tears stung his cheeks for the babe whose cries had gone unanswered, except by cold earth. For a moment he closed his eyes to let the tears fall, and as he wept he thought he heard on the breeze a soft chuckle, a child’s gurgle of laughter. His breath caught in his throat and the wind whirled about his head, filling his ears with a rushing sound. It seemed now as though his eyes were open and he looked on the plough team silently passing him. Arin, no older but somehow taller, handled the plough and on the beam sat the toddler and by him walked the girl child. A bird, wheeling overhead and calling, brought him back to himself and he turned, half expecting to see the children walking hand-in-hand away from the field, but there was nothing.

As he strode towards them the men, who had been sprawled on the ground, got to their feet and Hirrald came forward for his master’s orders, to receive another and a firmer buffet to his shoulder. Boromir pointed to the distant copse.

“What lies there?”

“It is a new willow coppice, my lord. We will cut the first wands next season.”

“It will not be cut, steward,” Boromir said firmly, “I have another and a better use for it.” He turned to the men and raised his voice, so that the ox-men, who had brought the team up closer, could hear.

“We have a hard task ahead of us this day, but one that will repay our care in doing it.” He stepped carefully around the scattered bones. “This little child was laid here because no place else was set aside for one lost to this world and the sad history of the field meant that it would welcome the outcast. It is a new day in a new age, and we will gather them in, the forlorn.” He pointed to the willow copse. “There will be their place; shaded by trees, soothed by the river’s sound, this will be a willow cradle for all time and I will set up a stone to gift it to them, so that my heirs down the years will know it for a place apart, and not to be disturbed for any reason. So ploughman,” he turned to Rafe, who watched him closely beneath furrowed brows, “take the plough right up to the markers, I want us to find as many of the lost as we may today – and if others rise up in subsequent ploughings, they can join their fellows in peace.” 

As Boromir beckoned Hirrald over, the men spoke together briefly and Boromir caught a few words in which ‘unhappy souls’ came through most clearly. 

“They are gone,” said Boromir, quietly but with such finality that all turned to look at him. “The ploughman, the maiden and their babe are gone from this place. They are free.”

Boromir set the stone-pickers to prepare a resting place in the willow-grove, whilst the steward and Rafe discussed how best to manage the ploughing, so close to the markers. They were carefully gathering and lifting the bones of the child when a shadow across the earth announced the arrival of Mistress Mariam with a kitchenmaid and covered baskets, meat and drink for the workers. She stood with solemn gaze as her good man explained the task, but had the maid take off her apron of bleached linen and they gently wrapped the bones in the white stuff.

All day they worked, at first tentative, but as more bones appeared, each body cared for tenderly, gradually men’s hands and voices grew more bold. There was even some laughter with their meal, when Rafe described as a child daring his cousins to spend the night on the field and one cousin, a burly fellow now, replied in kind. 

They had finished almost half of the ploughing when Mariam returned, gentle arms supporting a frail figure, an old woman who went straight to a field marker they had not reached and sank down before it, her apron cast over her face. No words were said, but Boromir took a spade from one of the men and accompanied Mariam to where the figure knelt, rocking back and forth.

The light was just beginning to fail as Rafe called his team to rest for the last time. By then the field was lined with onlookers, stood in silence, no children this time and Boromir sent the tired oxen back to their stalls with a couple of grooms, for the drivers asked leave to stay. Mariam had brought more linen, cut in strips, from the hall and each little bundle of bones was carefully wrapped, before a procession wound its way, in the glow of a red sky, through the meadowland to where a place had been prepared for the babes to lie together. The cut turf replaced on the long, low mound, Boromir led his people homeward. Behind him, voices rose as they left the fields to the nighthawk and the owl.   Folk talked of what the coming season might bring, plans for planting, hopes for the future. As he walked into the stable yard Arin came running and Boromir scooped him up into his arms, burying his nose in the boy’s soft curls.

The evening meal, enlivened by much singing and merriment in the body of the hall, had almost ended before Boromir realised that he had not thought of his engagement on the morrow for an age. It was the approach of a small party, Gil the cooper, Rafe and the ubiquitous Master Chub, to the high table that brought the ceremony to mind. The men stopped at the edge of the dais and made their bow. This time Arin, despite the noisy hall, was dozing in Boromir’s lap, so Boromir, rather than disturb the child, simply nodded and motioned them to a seat. They would speak with him about the morrow, a few points were gone over and then they arose, leaving Boromir suddenly more tired than he could remember in many a year.

Having laid Arin, washed and in a fresh nightshirt, in the wide bed, Boromir began his own preparations and realised why Aragorn had helped him pack. In place of the clean linen he had laid out for sleep, at the bottom of the pack Boromir recognised the blue silk shirt Aragorn had been wearing before they left. He lifted the soft stuff and laid his face against its slippery coolness. The shirt was creased as he slipped it on, but the precious smell of Aragorn, warm and spicy, lingered on. Boromir extinguished the lamps and settled back onto the soft pillows. Arin was already asleep, so Boromir rolled onto his stomach and tucked one hand under the edge of his pillow. Now he could rest his forehead on Aragorn’s silk, close his eyes, breathe in Aragorn’s musk and imagine his love’s caress as only a breath away.

The soft tap at his door was not nearly loud enough to disturb Arin, but Boromir had been half awake, staring into the darkness for some time, waiting for the call. He slid from the bed, wrapping a gown around him, cursing under his breath at the chill of the floor and went to unbar the door. In the corridor, Steward Hirrald stood carrying a shaded lamp and a pitcher that steamed. Boromir took them from him, nodded briefly and gently set his back to the door to close it.

Arin retained a child’s ability to sleep through small thunderstorms, but still Boromir took his lamp and jug quietly to the far side of the room and set the lamp on a low shelf, where it cast a dim glow around the basin into which Boromir poured the hot water. His body must be clean for the ceremony so regretfully he put off Aragorn’s shirt, but before he went further Boromir reached into his pack and brought out the small vial of scented oil. Carefully uncorking it, he springled a few drops on the surface of the water and immediately the steam from the basin took on a cinnamon-spiced, earthy, smell that brought his king to mind.

Boromir picked up a rag, dipped it into the hot water and swept it across his skin, lifting away the sweat of the previous day’s toil, replacing it with a film of soft spice. He was half hard, with a dull ache around his groin that begged for a firm, slow, hand, but although he carefully cleaned himself and then stroked one of the healer Celond’s balms into his skin around the scars, Boromir set his jaw and ignored the insistent call; his flesh must await its time.

He dressed in loose breeches and stout boots, a thick felted jerkin over a linen shirt and shrugged his old velvet cloak, worn and rubbed now, over the whole. Aragorn’s precious vial he tucked into the cuff of one leather gauntlet. Before he left, Boromir bent to kiss the sleeping child.

Below in the hall, the group was gathered around a lit brazier with small cups of hot wine. They would see in the dawn on the field and then return to the manor to break their fast. Boromir drained his beaker and handed it back to Mistress Mariam, who met his gaze calmly, saying, “The young lord will be waiting for you.”

Then, led by Rafe, carrying a sack of seed corn over his shoulder, the party set out to walk through the dark to the field. By the time they came over the hill towards the Well of Gold, their lanterns had been snuffed. There was no single gleam of fire in the east, but a grey light suffused all about them. 

Boromir had made his decision in the watches of the night and in the end, it had been an easy one, for all had been revealed about this place the day before. The field had offered up its secrets, begun in love, and he would do no less. As they clustered, hushed, around him, Boromir laid Aragorn’s vial on the flat-topped cairn and steadily stripped every stitch of clothing from his body, handing the garments to Hirrald, who stood to his left.

Not a word was spoken, but Boromir could feel the collective, silent, intake of breath when his scars were revealed. For a moment he shivered in the sudden chill. Rafe took hold of his wrist and when Boromir looked at him, he pressed the vial into Boromir’s hand. Then the men moved aside and Boromir walked forward a few paces along a furrow, into the field. A light mist still hung about the place, but ahead on the horizon, there was a swelling of the light.

The earth was damp beneath his feet and as he sank down he could feel the soil clinging to his knees. Boromir fixed his eyes on the horizon, uncorked the little vial and let oil flow over his fingers and drip below onto the hot skin. The cold hilltop had receded. There was only the earth beneath him, his burning, aching flesh, Aragorn’s scent and ahead the burgeoning light beckoning him onward…and his hands, strong fingers, blunt nails, teasing, stroking, stripping him of all pretence, that would make of him a naked creature, driven on by hunger, by the throbbing of his blood.

The watching men were not so close that they would have heard the Master breathe his love’s name as he swayed, hunched forward, shuddering through his release, the first beam of morning light gilding the red-gold hair on the bowed head. But as they saw him struggle for breath, the steward and the cooper came forward to raise him and wrap him in his cloak, whilst the ploughman cast a handful of seed over the earth where his cum could be seen spattered along the furrow, and Master Chub wielded the rake to cover over all.

“Here’s luck to the land,” said Boromir hoarsely.

“Here’s luck to the Master and the land,” came back their reply and they led him from the field with tenderness.

The Lord Steward’s garden in Minas Tirith, dark and wet with softly falling rain, was sleeping. Boromir knew that, come the warmer weather, the herb knot he had sown from seed would begin to peep through the earth. He had twined their initials in golden thyme and camomile across a wide bed in the rose garden. If any should ask in times to come, the ‘A’ was for their son, but he and Aragorn could both pick out the second, hidden ‘A’, clasped between their ciphers. It had been right to create a living thing, springing from the ground they served, to signify their commitment, one to the other.

Boromir turned back to the room, padded to the side of the bed, and slid under the coverlet to lie on his back staring up at the familiar pattern of stars, rock crystals set into the deep blue of the vaulted ceiling, that glinted dully in the light of a solitary lamp. Aragorn might come to him before morning; like-as-not he would wake alone. As sleep claimed him, King Elessar’s Steward, the Lord Boromir, was listing his tasks for the morrow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been edited since its first posting at alex-quine.livejournal.com.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been edited since its first posting at www.alex-quine.livejournal.com and 'Seedtime' is followed by 'Roguing' and 'Harvest Home'.


End file.
